Note: This work is entirely fictional and belongs to the Alternate History genre, utilizing historical characters and events in a fictional context. All content is a product of imagination and does not reflect reality or political or military stance.

The story contains sensitive elements such as violence, large-scale warfare, tense political conflicts, and alternative historical depictions. It is not suitable for readers under 16 years of age or those who may be psychologically affected.

Continuing to read implies acceptance of all controversial elements within the work.

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Feldor Delacroix, former Foreign Minister of the Papaldia Empire, still could not fathom his fate. He—once perched atop the pinnacle of power, the man who, with a stroke of his pen, had ordered the slaughter of thousands—was now bound like a lowly criminal.

Inside the cargo hold of an Il-76MD transport plane bound for Russia, Feldor couldn't tear his eyes away from the Russian soldiers seated across from him. Clad in field uniforms, their AK-12 rifles at the ready, their gazes were as cold and unyielding as war machines devoid of mercy. None of them bothered to speak to him. They merely watched, as if he were nothing more than a worthless sack of flesh.

His hands were zip-tied behind his back, his legs tightly bound, rendering any thought of escape a futile fantasy. He had once believed he would face a trial, a public hearing. But the Russians had no such intentions. They didn't need a trial. His crimes were too blatant—a Russian diplomat brutally murdered, sparking the war that reduced his empire to ashes.

Feldor didn't know how long he had been airborne. All he recalled was the biting wind as he stepped out of the plane at a secretive military airfield, shoved directly into an armored vehicle flanked by guards.

Through a small window, he glimpsed snow-capped mountains outside. The howling wind chilled him to the bone, even inside the vehicle. Feldor swallowed hard. He had heard tales of Russia's remote lands—places where winter could annihilate an army without a single shot fired. And now, he was headed to such a place.

The vehicle passed through a massive iron gate, guarded by armored soldiers wielding rifles. The sign above the gate sent a shiver down his spine:

KOLYMA

Feldor didn't know what Kolyma meant, but the icy expressions of the Russian soldiers told him it was no place for the fortunate.

As the colossal steel gate clanged shut behind him, Feldor felt his fate sealed along with it. He recalled his glorious days in Papaldia, when colonies trembled at his every decree. He had been the arbiter, deciding the fates of thousands with a single signature. But now, his former titles meant nothing.

The vehicle halted before a stark concrete building, its dim yellow lights casting a sickly glow on the thick snow outside. The door swung open, and a frigid gust slapped Feldor's face. He was yanked from the vehicle like an animal, his feet barely touching the ground before being shoved forward. A Russian officer, a lieutenant colonel's insignia gleaming on his chest, stood waiting.

"Take him in."

The voice was curt, devoid of emotion.

Feldor was thrust inside the building, where a line of guards in frost-resistant masks awaited. One stepped forward, tossing a drab gray prisoner's uniform at him.

"Strip."

He hesitated, but a brutal punch to the gut doubled him over, gasping for air.

"I won't say it again."

Trembling, Feldor shed his once-luxurious attire. The cold pierced his skin, making him shiver uncontrollably. No one showed the slightest pity. They regarded him as mere inventory entering a warehouse. A guard scribbled something in a ledger, then spoke in a dry tone:

"Number 783. That's your name now."

Feldor froze. He was no longer Feldor Delacroix, former Foreign Minister of the Papaldia Empire. He was merely Prisoner 783.

An iron shackle clamped around his ankle, its red light blinking incessantly. Then, Feldor was roughly dragged forward, the guards prodding him with the bayonets of their AK-74 rifles.

They led him to a mining area, where hundreds of prisoners toiled, extracting gold. From a distance, he saw ragged figures cursed and whipped relentlessly by overseers.

As he was brought before a man in thermal gear, the figure sized him up with a quick glance before letting out a scornful laugh.

"Another noble fallen from paradise to the mud," the man rasped, his voice laced with mockery. "Listen up, 783. There are no exceptions here, no privileges, no titles. You have one job—work, or die."

Feldor clenched his teeth but said nothing.

"Assign him to Team 4," the overseer ordered. "Where his kind belongs. Hold on..." He raised a hand. "Don't let this one die. After what he did on TV, death would be too merciful. Just make sure he doesn't die. That's all."

The sun hung low in the sky, casting a pale light that offered no warmth. No snow fell, only barren, rocky ground scarred by the tracks of armored vehicles. Kolyma was no longer the frozen prison of old tales, but it remained a hell in every sense.

Feldor was shoved into a group of prisoners laboring tirelessly. The rhythmic clanging of metal against stone echoed, monotonous and unending. No one spoke to him. No one spared him more than a glance.

A shovel was tossed at his feet, accompanied by a contemptuous glare from a guard.

"Get to work, 783."

Feldor bent to pick up the shovel, his hands trembling slightly. The air was dry and stifling, but no one dared pause to breathe. Those who stopped shared the same fate—sprawled on the ground, bruised, or worse.

He gripped the shovel tightly, the rough wood scraping against the soft hands of a man once accustomed to luxury.

Each swing of the shovel was a cut into his shattered pride.

Kolyma was no longer a land of death by frost, but it was still a place where humanity was ground to nothing.

And Feldor Delacroix, or Prisoner 783, was only beginning to feel it.

Feldor soon realized that in Kolyma, time ceased to matter. Each day blended into the next—a relentless cycle of grueling labor, meager meals, beatings, and fitful sleep on hard planks.

4:30 AM — A piercing siren shattered the silence, rousing the entire camp. No exceptions, no privileges. Though Feldor was still groggy, his body aching from yesterday's exhausting labor, he forced himself to sit up instantly. Anyone slow to rise was beaten.

The morning wind slipped through the barracks' cracks, not cold enough to freeze but enough to make his joints ache. The other prisoners were accustomed to it. No one complained, no one grumbled. They lined up silently, like machines.

5:00 AM — Hundreds of prisoners stood in neat rows in the yard, surrounded by weathered barracks. A group of guards patrolled slowly, their sharp eyes scanning each man.

"Number 783!"

Feldor flinched as his number was called. He stepped forward, head bowed. No one used his real name anymore.

The overseer glanced at him briefly, then turned to the scribe. Nothing needed to be said. He was just a number on an endless list of the forgotten.

5:30 AM — Prisoners received a watery bowl of gruel, a hard piece of bread, and a cup of water. No meat, no vegetables. No one dared complain.

Feldor, who had once dined at lavish banquets with fine wine and dishes crafted by master chefs, now sat among ragged men, slurping tasteless gruel.

He looked at those around him, men who had accepted their fate. They ate in silence, quickly, as if a moment's delay could cost them their portion.

He swallowed hard, then began to eat.

6:00 AM — Prisoners were assigned tasks. Some descended into the mines to dig for gold, others worked in workshops, and some hauled stones and construction materials.

Feldor was thrust into the mining group, alongside skeletal men with hollow, exhausted faces.

The task was simple: dig, dig, and dig.

He gripped the pickaxe, his shoulders stinging with the first swing. But he had no choice.

If he didn't work, he would die.

12:00 PM — The only break of the day. They received another meal: a piece of dry bread and a cup of water.

No one spoke. Everyone ate as quickly as possible, seizing every moment to rest. Some collapsed to sleep on the ground, heedless of the oppressive heat.

Feldor slumped against a rock, his back pressed against its rough surface.

He began to understand that here, the weather didn't matter. Heat or cold made no difference. Only exhaustion and despair were eternal.

1:00 PM — No mercy, no exceptions.

Feldor's hands were growing numb, but he kept digging.

Those who collapsed from exhaustion were beaten.

Those who couldn't stand were dragged away.

Feldor didn't know where they went, and he didn't want to know.

6:00 PM — Shuffling footsteps on the barren ground, heavy breathing echoing in the air.

As they returned to the camp, dusk was settling in.

Before entering the barracks, every prisoner underwent a quick inspection. Anyone showing signs of defiance was punished immediately.

Feldor kept his head down, avoiding eye contact. He had learned that in this world, the best thing was to become invisible.

7:00 PM — More watery gruel and hard bread.

He ate mechanically, no longer registering the taste.

8:00 PM — The only hour of the day when prisoners had nothing to do.

Some lay on their bunks, trying to sleep. Others scratched words onto the walls—stories, names, faint memories of their former lives.

Feldor just sat, staring at the cracked concrete wall.

He remembered his days of glory, seated in a lavish office, ordering the destruction of thousands without blinking.

Now, no one remembered him.

No one cared about him.

He was just Number 783.

9:00 PM — The siren blared, and the camp plunged into darkness.

Feldor lay on his hard bunk, staring at the cracked ceiling.

No one spoke.

Only the labored breathing of the exhausted, the groans of the injured, and the distant howl of the night wind through the concrete walls filled the air.

He closed his eyes.

Tomorrow, it would all begin again.

No future. No hope.

Just an endless loop—until he no longer had the strength to dig, to eat, to breathe.

Until Kolyma took everything.